


1285 clifton place, brooklyn heights, for rent

by theshamecube



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 06:14:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24380068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theshamecube/pseuds/theshamecube
Summary: They got the brownstone in late January.It has lots of sunlight streaming through giant windows, and wide open spaces inviting you in.But it is not empty.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19





	1285 clifton place, brooklyn heights, for rent

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [$499,000 - 4bd, 3ba, 2,940 sqft](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20991368) by [seabass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seabass/pseuds/seabass). 



They got the brownstone in late January. 

They decided that they needed more space since Arthur would be working from home for a while. And more room to breathe, if they were being honest. The old apartment had been theirs for years, but they knew it was time for a change.

It was ordinary in every aspect Arthur could see: worn, light brown wallpaper that held nicks from bumps and scrapes, hardwood floors that spoke of pet nails and dropped items, handrails that stood strong under hand despite being there since the place was built. The floor plan was laid out like the other houses on either side of them, although these only reached to a second floor, unlike the ones in Manhattan and other neighborhoods they had scoured. The one to their right was empty, but the left held an old couple and their grandkid, all of whom greeted Arthur and Eames when they were moving in. They were quiet despite the thin walls that usually echoed the slightest noise, and Arthur appreciated the fact as his work began.

Eames would leave early, pressing a kiss to Arthur's head, the latter still under the covers as he departed. Arthur would only emerge a half-hour later, dressing and stumbling down the stairs for a cup of coffee to bring him to life. His "office" was in between the living room and kitchen, the desk facing the wide windows of the former, the morning sun throwing color onto the walls as it rose.

Most of their moving boxes had made their way to the basement by the beginning of February, books now filling shelves of their far too big bookcase to the brim. Eames' assorted knick-knacks were sitting on their edges: a framed art print from a pop-up shop leaning against the spines, fake plants taking up residence on the sides (ever since the last cactus died, Arthur ruled no more living ones inside, which Eames was more than willing to agree to), there was even a tiny gargoyle statue that had been found at a flea market, keeping watch over Arthur on a top corner, its face kind in contrast to the other on the neighboring corner. 

Pictures of friends and family were scattered around the house, a few tacked to the fridge, including their niece and nephew. Ariadne was the first to drop by after they completed the move, along with their friend Yusuf. She said hi as she hugged her brother, calling out a greeting to Eames before Yusuf did the same. She adored the space, finally seeing it filled in rather than piled with boxes, and Eames told her she could stay over any time she wanted, thanks to their guest room. She beamed and said she would definitely take that offer soon. Eames' sister Mal and her husband came over a day later, their niece and nephew in tow, letting them run around as they took in the new home. Mal commented on how warm it felt, and Eames knew that they had made the right choice. Routines began, and they settled into their environment, the occasional cars in the street becoming background noise once again.

*****

It was just another morning, mid-January; Eames had left for the day, and Arthur was in the middle of his half-hour before rising, typing out a text to Ariadne. It was then that he felt a prickling sensation on his neck, the fine hairs standing up on alert. He glanced around, but everything looked the same: dim sunlight through the blinds showed nothing but furniture and their bathroom and closet doors. He shook his head and got up, taking the extra time he now had to read a few pages of his book before dressing. Emails from company clients took his attention from the morning's event, driving it out completely by noon. A few birds were singing in their small garden as he put together lunch, and he did a double take after glancing outside, texting Eames with one hand.

Were those bird feeders there yesterday?

_I got them on the weekend, only managed to put them up this morning_

If raccoons start coming into our yard, you’re dealing with them

_could adopt them_

Absolutely not

_outside only pets, many benefits_

I will change the locks on the door

_for me or if they figure out how to open one?_

Both

_living with raccoons wouldn’t be so bad_

Your mind already lives in the gutter

 _see? easy adjustment_

Arthur smiled before telling his husband to go back to work, another cup of coffee in hand as he settled on the couch, determined to make the most of his hour break. Dusk fell with little fanfare, and Arthur shut down his computer, standing up to stretch. He could feel his joints popping in response, and reminded himself to get up more often lest he need to see the chiropractor again. The thought made him grimace; now he _knew_ he was definitely getting older. 

Eames arrived home not long after, greeting his husband with a kiss on the cheek. He talked about the rat that had managed to board his subway car this morning, everyone standing on a seat or pulling their feet up as it scurried from end to end. Then there was the incident of half of the office deciding to pull a prank on their boss, Saito, which had somehow _not_ spectacularly backfired, and left everyone in a better mood. Arthur listened to the tale as he put the finishing touches on their dinner, a small smile present on his face the entire time. They had been together almost ten years at this point, married for five, but sometimes Arthur still marveled that they had managed to get this far at all. From the first meeting, one would’ve thought Arthur was going to murder Eames on the sidewalk in public, not end up being his life partner. But he was more than happy with the outcome.

Eames was upstairs as darkness descended on the city, Arthur setting up the last pan on the towel to dry overnight when a floorboard creaked. It wouldn't have registered to him if it wasn’t for the fact that the creak was close by, instead of muffled and overheard. He stilled, breathing shallow as he listened. He could hear Eames above the kitchen, the subtle sound of a drawer shutting practically echoing in comparison to the quiet of the room. Slowly, Arthur turned his head towards where he had heard the noise.

Nothing.

Feeling a little silly, he shook his head; the place was old, there were bound to be noises from it settling — old pipes to creak in the walls, the squeak of a door opening, an ancient latch that was harder to shut, needing heavy force to close.

 _Nothing at all to worry about,_ Arthur told himself, sitting next to Eames in the living room, book in hand. _Just a new place to get used to._

*****

A few days passed without incident, save for another morning of waking up with that feeling of high alert. It was so sudden it shook Arthur out of his sleep. He didn’t voice his concerns to Eames, believing that he was still adjusting to the house; too many years of a city apartment were ingrained into him, decades worth really. It would take some time to get used to a new environment, that was all, he reminded himself firmly. Morning was busier than usual, and when he finally broke away from the computer, he ventured into the basement during his daily lunch hour. When they had moved in, he had spotted a few items left behind from previous owners, and resolved to check them out when the opportunity presented itself. Curiosity was one of his biggest vices, but it certainly didn’t stop him from pursuing a closer look.

The light flickered on over the steps, a straight staircase leading down onto the cold, grey concrete floor below. The temperature gradually dropped as Arthur descended, and he pulled his jacket closed, arms crossing as he reached the bottom. Another light flickered on, and the rest of the basement was bathed in a warm yellow from the singular bulb, casting shadows onto the empty moving boxes now disassembled and tucked in a corner. A dusty, slightly cracked bookshelf lay in the opposite one, little scatterings of nails and broken pottery covered in dirt on a few of its shelves. There were a couple intact flower pots on the bottom shelf, and a few circles near them that indicated others had once been there, removed only a while before the place had gone up for rent. A drop cloth over a pile of frames leaning against the bookcase was equally as untouched, and Arthur covered his face with a sleeve as he threw off the fabric, dust springing into the air as it fell to the floor. Some of the frames were empty, but a few still held what looked like homemade art. He gently sorted through them, mentally cataloging each one he saw: a watercolor seascape with a lighthouse in a storm, a sketched garden with deep black shadows, a partial drawing of a row of what looked like the neighborhood brownstones, each made individual with a plant on the steps or decoration in front of the windows.

He had just reached the last remaining frames when a noise that sounded like a groan rang out right behind him, and it froze him in place. He felt all residual noise fade away, ears almost perking up to listen harder for another. His heart began to beat faster, and the frame under his fingertips shook ever so slightly. He swallowed, and it felt like something was blocking his throat. _This is ridiculous,_ he thought, and clenched his jaw, whipping around to face the other walls.

Empty.

Arthur chastised himself under his breath, grabbing ahold of the cloth and setting it over the paintings again. The air was colder than before, but he shrugged it off, thinking that it was just the basement; it was always colder than the rest of the house.

Arthur reached the bottom of the stairs, flicking off the switch that had illuminated the floor. He had only climbed the first few steps when a prickling feeling shot up his spine, and he looked into the darkness of the room, illuminated only by the little window that looked out into the garden. Nothing moved, nothing made a sound, but that didn’t stop his mind from telling him to get up the steps, to get out of there. It didn’t quiet down until he reached the warmth of the kitchen lights and sun, a wave of relief flooding through him.

If he shut the door harder than he usually did, he didn’t note it.

*****

Arthur was prone to waking up in the middle of the night sometimes, usually because he had, as Eames once said, "the bladder of a kitten", or just waking up from a dream that was lost the moment he opened his eyes. This time, it looked to be the latter.

Sighing quietly, he glanced at the bedside clock, unsurprised to see it hovering around 2:45 am. A small line of light caught his eye, and he looked over to see the bathroom door closed, the gap letting streaks of yellow into the dark of the room. Eames must've been up, which was rare, but not a sight Arthur hadn't seen before. He heard small movements within, lazily watching the door through squinted eyes against the pillow.

A tiny squeak captured him, and instinct turned his head to see the bedroom door open barely a crack. Before Arthur could feel apprehension form in his chest, the bathroom door opened, Eames emerging before the light shut off, throwing them back into darkness. He must've seen his partner awake since he asked, "Did I wake you?"

Arthur shook his head, looking back at the door, which hadn't moved in that brief period of time. Eames followed his gaze, and made a little noise before padding over, shutting it with a solid clicking sound. "Must've not heard it shut properly when I came up," Eames explained away, and Arthur felt his muscles unfurl, sleep beginning to thread back into his body.

Eames settled back into bed, and Arthur moved closer, feeling the heat Eames seemed to radiate under the covers. 

"Remind me to call someone about the thermostat," Arthur muttered, his ice cold fingers pressed between his own chest and Eames' side. Eames nodded, lying an arm around his husband before they both fell back into sleep. 

*****

It was early March, and Arthur thought he had set his pencil by the computer, but it was gone.

Arthur doesn’t misplace his things. If his memory was correct — and it was — he hadn’t in years. But despite this knowledge, the pencil was still gone. And not below the desk, as if it had rolled off, nor was it hidden under a stack of papers. It had simply disappeared.

For some reason, this bothered him more than anything, and even though he replaced it and got back to work, the thought lurked in the back of his mind like a shadow. He brushed it off, more aggravated with himself for caring about the mystery of a lost pencil than was normal. He pulled back on his jacket, and forced himself back to the neverending emails and calls and messaging. He locked the event up, shutting it away for later, or never at all.

In comparison, the night was uneventful, save for Ariadne facetiming them about a new place she had found in the city, telling them she wanted to treat them on the weekend if they were free. Eames’ warm palm rested on Arthur’s legs, currently crossed on his lap, agreeing to the date. She mentioned her girlfriend coming along, and Arthur voiced his own agreement — he loved when Sydney visited, and had gotten along with her from the moment Ariadne had introduced them.

Eames made a comment about city dwellers after hanging up, and Arthur reminded his husband that they were still those too, shoving a foot in his side. This only made the older man laugh, a hand taking hold of his ankle. Arthur fought to keep his expression serious, but it dissolved when Eames gathered him close, arms inescapable as he took revenge on Arthur’s ribs.

They eventually retired to bed, the bright of the moon seeping in through the closed blinds. Eames was still asleep when Arthur snapped awake, his body fully tense and shivering as what he thought sounded like whispers from whatever he had been dreaming about faded away in his ears. The clock read 2:30 am, and the only noise was Eames’ soft snores and the occasional car passing on their street. Their bed was almost pushed into a corner of the room, the door diagonally across from it. Said door was currently closed, but Arthur couldn’t stop staring at it, an instinctual tension creeping from his stomach up into his chest. It reminded him of when he was younger, still on the high of a scary movie or haunted house he had visited with his friends: the scenes and costumes following him home, resting in his closet, in the pile of clothes that cast a shadow on the wall, senses heightened to the slightest change. But this was different; it was like a vine had curled around his chest, squeezing tight until it hurt, his throat clogged with a need to breathe. It also reminded him of a panic attack, something he hadn’t had in years, and Arthur blinked rapidly, willing himself to calm down. Something flickered in the corner of his eye, and he froze again.

The corner of the room next to the door was pitch black thanks to their dresser, its size blocking the moonlight that managed to sneak through the closed blinds. Despite that, Arthur swore he saw an outline of something...someone...standing there, just watching. Heartbeat now pounding in his ears, he tore his gaze from the corner, slamming a palm on the nightstand lamp switch, its bulb clicking on almost immediately. He snapped his head back to the corner, breathing heavily as he faced it.

Bare walls faced back.

Eames didn’t stir beside him, even when Arthur shuffled until his back hit Eames’ chest. An arm wrapped around his waist, and some of the fear he had felt lifted. Normally he avoided cuddling for too long during sleep, mostly from Eames’ amazing ability to act like a furnace, but lately he was more than willing to endure it; there was a little chill in his skin that he couldn't melt away no matter what he did. With one last look at the corner, he flipped the switch off, turning over to bury his face in his husband’s chest. 

As long as Eames was here, he decided, that’s all that mattered. 

*****

It was the middle of the day, and Arthur was upstairs in the bathroom.

For the most part, work was the same as always, but he only had a half day thanks to the company deciding to go on an “early spring break”, as the email had said. Still, it came from the boss to everyone, so Arthur wasn’t about to argue.

He stood under the warm spray of the shower, letting the water sink into his muscles so they gradually relaxed. The chiropractor thought emerged again, and he snorted, shutting the handle down. Goosebumps rose on his arms as he pulled back the shower door slightly, just enough to grab the towel hanging from the rack next to it. The shower had also been to try to warm himself up, but as quickly as he had felt normal again, the rush of the house air took it away. He wrapped the towel around himself, and padded over to the closet, his fingers slicking back his hair out of habit. He pulled on one of the long sleeve shirts he had that was more for winter, and dressed quickly into other casual clothes, picking up the towel to take it back into the bathroom.

As he moved across the room, a flicker of… something…caught his eye, in the hallway that stretched straight from their door. It looked like something tall, broad enough to block most of the space between the walls, but vanished when Arthur turned to look fully.

“Eames?” he asked, feeling foolish but hoping anyways. 

A figure suddenly appeared, closer down the hall to their room for barely a second, but Arthur saw enough to know that it _definitely_ wasn’t Eames, and dropped the towel. He lunged to the door, barely slamming and locking it shut before a loud bang reverberated against the wood. Arthur practically fell to the floor, scooting back until his shoulder blades hit the end of the bed. He stared at the door, holding perfectly still as silence surrounded him. His heart was rapid firing in his chest, and he forced himself to control his breaths...in…out... _you’re fine, it’s nothing, just not enough sleep_ ...in...out… _but that bang was so loud, how could it not be real_ …

He stayed in there for hours, only emerging when he heard Eames enter the house, peeking out carefully, heart in his throat. 

The hallway was clear.

*****

He still hadn’t told Eames what was happening.

It was more out of years of dealing with his own problems than actually _trying_ to keep it secret, and he had no idea if he was truly experiencing these events or if he was possibly finally losing it after years of teasing from his family that he worked too hard. Every night he would wake up hours before his alarm and immediately turn towards his partner, inching close to feel some measure of relief. He didn’t hate turning to Eames for comfort, but the frequency of it was starting to itch at him. Still, the idea of being out of his husband’s reach when the prickling on his neck stung was more than he was willing to face yet. He’d pretend to be asleep when Eames woke up, but the circles under his eyes were getting a little harder to hide as time passed.

Ariadne eventually stayed for a weekend, and for some reason, the house was different. No sightings, no echoing whispers, nothing. Arthur slept each night completely, the cold not seeping into his bones, and felt some of the weariness lift off of him with it. He’d been working harder than usual as a distraction, and he didn’t miss the concerned faces of his sister and partner out of the corner of his eye. Letting Ariadne go back to her place and not stopping her to tell her to stay, tell her what was going on, hurt so bad Arthur bit his tongue to hold back the words.

He began to dread being alone in the house, during the day or even on the weekend, and he swore that he was hearing whispering from around the house when he was on his own. It was so low, however, so inarticulate and faint, he wasn’t sure. It couldn’t have been happening to Eames because god knows he would’ve heard about it from him by now. Which meant that whatever was going on — _if_ something was going on — was targeting Arthur and Arthur alone. 

During the weekends, when work was closed and he wasn’t anchored to his desk, Arthur would make an excuse for them to go into Manhattan for as long as possible. He always took Eames; even though there was no evidence that Eames was experiencing anything, Arthur didn’t want to risk the chance of whatever was happening to seek a new target if he wasn’t around. The man was more than willing to venture the subway to the island, and as the weather grew warmer, they visited the famous parks that littered the city like they had done for many years.

Eames did eventually ask him if everything was alright, one bright sunny day as they walked in Union Square. Arthur briefly thought about the first night, the night he had thought he’d seen something in the shadows of their room, the whispers, and shut it away.

“I’m fine, Eames.”

“It’s just...you’ve been a bit quieter than you usually are. And I know you haven’t been sleeping well.”

Arthur sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Work is piled up. Once this deadline passes, I’ll be able to relax a little.” Not exactly a lie — work was on the busy season — but it wasn’t really the truth either.

Eames looked a little doubtful, but dropped the subject, knowing that if he pressed it would only rile up his partner, which never ended well. They continued the rest of the day as normal, and that night, Arthur took a couple sleeping pills, if only to alleviate Eames’ worry. 

It was around mid-afternoon when the next incident happened. Arthur had been upstairs, putting away some laundry, Eames below him in the kitchen as he washed off some dirt from the garden. His husband was adamant to make some flowers grow where weeds had previously resided, and Arthur barely contained a smile at the expletives he’d heard when a few had refused to budge easily.

He was about to walk down the stairs when clear as day, a voice whispered his name, right in his ear. He turned immediately, facing down the short hall to the bedrooms and closet, his mind on high alert. 

Nothing.

Visual hallucinations had happened to Arthur before with lack of sleep, but he knew, he _knew,_ that he wasn’t too far gone to start experiencing audio ones now. He didn’t dare call out; his voice was stuck in his throat anyways. Save for the sound of Eames shutting the door in the kitchen, it was quiet. He stood there for a few moments more, wondering if the noise would sound again, but nothing spoke. Just as he turned to continue his journey down the stairs, he swore he felt two solid hands touch his back and _push._

He didn’t remember the fall down the steps. He was aware of the pain in his body as it struck the wooden edges, falling over and over, but everything else was blank. Arthur only gained his bearings once he was at the bottom of the steps, legs tangled on the last few, and felt something wet at his throbbing temple. Arthur lifted a shaking hand, barely touching it before his head swam, and he pulled it back to see red coating his fingertips. Shit. Head wound.

Carefully, he checked the movement of his limbs, relieved to find none of them broken. His ribs hurt, but not bad enough that made it hard to breathe. None broken, no puncture to a lung (an experience he never wanted to relive again if he could help it). He was going to be bruised all to hell from those steps, he knew that much. Arthur tried to sit up, but stars dotted his vision at the attempt, so he carefully laid back down, heart still racing in his chest as adrenaline and exhaustion went to war with each other. Blood was starting to soak into the side of his head, and its coppery smell didn't help the pounding in his skull. He could see into the kitchen, the back screen door and window over the sink letting in a cool, late March air that made the small curtains sway in the breeze from the garden.

Garden.

Eames.

Swallowing, Arthur called out, his voice hoarse and choked before trying again. He heard his partner call back, and let his head rest back on the floor gently, feeling the aches and pains all over from the fall more acutely as the adrenaline faded. Eames called again, but Arthur couldn’t summon up the strength to answer. He heard the screen door open and shut, opening his eyes (when had he closed them?) just in time to see Eames spot him.

 _Head wounds bleed worse than they look,_ Eames reminded himself, helping his partner sit up. Still, it didn’t help the small frenzy of his heart, the muscle lurching at the puddle of red on the floor as they moved away from it. He felt Arthur’s chest gently, and winced when the man flinched at the touch of his ribs. He agreed that nothing else seemed out of place as he studiously ignored the drops of blood on Arthur’s shirt collar that were spreading into the fibers, and asked what the hell happened.

Arthur bit back the answer that he wanted to say, compulsion to not sound like he was losing it driving the lie. “Misstep, probably.”

“Well, no more alright? Thought I was about to have a heart attack,” Eames said. He had Arthur sitting against the wall and fetched a damp towel, not caring if the blood stained it as he gently dabbed at the wound. Arthur hummed in agreement as he closed his eyes, his hand barely holding onto Eames’ free wrist in assurance.

No more.

*****

It was getting worse.

Arthur was much more irritable when he was sleep deprived, and the recent fall didn’t help matters. He was only barely getting through the work day from four hours of sleep most nights, and more than once Eames came home to his partner asleep on the couch, exhausted. He let him be, knowing that any was better than whatever he was getting during the night.

Arguments were less common than they used to be; these days they were usually something small that was resolved in minutes rather than the blow outs that used to happen back when they first knew one another. Arthur was the calm and collected one, his own emotions battened down in order to finish a fight. But now, Arthur seemed tense almost all the time; he felt like he was ready to lash out at the first given opportunity, and knew that he looked much paler than usual, as if the life within him was receding away. Eames didn’t exactly tiptoe around him — he knew that would only make matters much worse — but he was certainly quieter than usual, only making a few jokes that would get Arthur to smile a little before it dropped from his face. He was worried, and knew he would have to bring it up sometime before Arthur eventually reached the bottom of the hill and crashed.

But before it could even happen, the nightmares started.

Arthur didn’t see anything in these dreams, just the inky blackness surrounding him as voices whispered and yelled and spoke, his heart racing as he tried to block out the words he could now truly hear for the first time:

_we tangle into the flesh of the ones who never will know what has been and what will be and when the whisper of the wind has faded and the last bones of the animals buried in the earth have fallen into the ashes of our doing and the seeds of those who died have burst only then will we know the sweetness of the rotten fruit that we consume and breathe and live and poison of this world that spins beneath the burning of mistakes and forgotten words spoken as the skin peels away into the vines we wrap around the necks of those we create in order to preserve our own in order to preserve our own in order to preserve our own—_

Eames woke in the middle of the night to Arthur digging his fingers into his shirt, his nails almost carving crescents into his skin. A high pitched whining noise was being dragged out of Arthur’s throat, making him cling even harder to him. Eames shook him awake, and could feel the rapid heartbeat of his partner under his fingertips. Arthur aggressively rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his palm, sitting up so the bed cover fell to his lap. Eames heard him mutter something, and his shoulders drooped, the tense lines slack for once.

Eames smoothed a hand on Arthur’s spine in comfort, and the man answered “Just a bad dream” to his husband’s unasked question. Soon his pulse faded to normal, and the rest of the night passed by quickly. Arthur was truly asleep when Eames got up for work, and he felt his chest ache at the lines under Arthur’s eyes, more prominent than he’d ever seen before.

The next night rendered another nightmare, and this one must’ve been worse because Arthur didn’t try to dismiss it; he just got out of bed, telling Eames he’d be right back, to go back to sleep, and walked into their bathroom. Eames lay there for a few moments, hearing the sink run for some time before it shut off. The pull of sleep still had him in its hands, and he was out before he could make sure Arthur was coming back to bed.

He awoke to an empty, cold bed, and the unfamiliarity of it jolted him to alertness. Getting up, he walked into the bathroom, and discovered Arthur on the cold floor, leaning against the combined tub/shower. He was listing slightly, eyes almost completely shut, but they would open more when his head fell forward, jerking it back up until it rested against the porcelain.

“Have you been in here all night?” Eames asked, kneeling down next to him. He felt Arthur’s forehead with the back of a hand, but there was no heat emanating from him; instead, it felt like he was colder than usual, and Eames' worry only increased.

“Not all night,” Arthur murmured, looking down at his lax hands in his lap, which were trembling.

“Why didn’t you come back to bed?”

“Just...couldn’t….” Arthur said, letting Eames worry over him. He felt himself being picked up, and usually he would protest and shove at Eames to let him down, he didn’t want to be carried, but was too tired and weak to do so this time. He felt the covers being pulled over him, could hear the sound of Eames talking softly to someone once, twice, and then the latter easing under the covers with him, wrapping him up in a gentle embrace.

“You have work,” Arthur protested weakly, but Eames shook his head, letting his chin rest on top of Arthur’s hair.

“Not today, not you either. Rest darling, you need it.”

Arthur couldn’t argue against it; the warmth and safety he felt sent him tumbling into dreamless sleep before he could reply.

*****

It was mid-April, the nightmares were still happening, things were escalating.

And Arthur doesn’t sleepwalk.

It’s not a guess that he doesn't — he _knows_ he doesn’t. He had volunteered for a series of tests done at a sleep study, back when he was a money-needing teenager, and was told he never moved from the position he fell asleep in, save for a few twitches, that his brain activity wasn’t high enough or disrupted to the point that it _could_ happen. So no, he doesn’t sleepwalk.

Still, he had no other way of explaining how he came to be standing near the basement door in the middle of the night. The last thing he remembered was falling asleep next to Eames, huddled close because of the cold, and then upon opening his eyes, being in a completely different place other than his bed.

He knew he wasn’t dreaming either; if he was, the details were far more vivid than other ones he’d had: the sharp lines of the closed basement door stood out too much, the feel of the cool wood floor under his bare feet too sensitive, like tendrils creeping up his skin. No, he was awake.

He wanted to move, to get back to the stairs and up to their room, but something held him in place. He struggled, throwing everything he had to will himself to move, but it was like fighting a brick wall. All he could do was watch as the basement door unlocked, the knob turning, opening silently all on its own. The sight was unnerving, his breath caught in his chest as the opening yawned in front of him. The light from the night sky that was flooding into the kitchen shone down the first few steps before ending. The darkness within was complete, no light shining through from below, which was impossible — there was the window down there, the one that looked out to the garden, and the moonlight should've been shining through. 

Although outwardly he might’ve appeared calm and collected, inside he was anything but. A compelling that wasn’t his own made him move, closer and closer to the expanse of the steps. He felt terror skitter up his spine, goosebumps littering his arms, acute of every sound and sight surrounding him.

He reached the edge of the top step, stopping as he gazed down into the abyss before him, his shadow the only company. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, fear-filled huffs of breath shooting out of him. He could feel himself beginning to shake, and a drop of sweat ran down the side of his face. 

One step. Another.

Whispers drifted up from the dark, curling around him and sending pin pricks of unease up his spine, nausea roiling in his stomach.

He was still fighting against the force that propelled him, not letting up in the slightest. The whispers were getting louder, and he was able to hear them again:

_the end of the life is the only truth of the world and the way it is will always be and it will always end and we are always to be until the great blackness above us opens its maw to swallow and grasp and steal until the light of the morning and star is gone and taken into the place it cannot escape from and we will still be for the shadows are the start the beginning of the lie—_

Despite the force's hold, feeling was coming back into his hands from fighting, and he saw them twitch in response. Arthur didn’t know what awaited in the dark of the basement, but every instinct inside him was _screaming_ for him to get away, to go back up the steps, to run until he reached the safety of his partner. His throat was blocked, any attempt at yelling for Eames prevented by the unknown that held him in its grasp. 

He was halfway down the steps, the creeping edges of the shadows edging his face when he finally lashed out with all the strength he had in one sudden burst. The force that had been pushing him down recoiled, and he reeled back from the release, landing hard on the step.

 _we have not seen the great vastness upon the sky that stretches into the dark yet cannot hide and cannot bring back what you have lost to the dirt under your nails—_

Wasting no time, not caring about anything but fleeing, he twisted around, fingers scrambling and pushing him back to his feet. He flew upwards, fight or flight kicking into full gear, and had nearly reached the top step when the door swung shut with a loud _bang!_

_and the other will steal the world and all it holds until the sea has boiled into fire that will not fade and burn until it is choked by its own existence—_

Arthur slammed into it, the side of his face flaring in pain, but he had enough mind to grab the doorknob to keep from falling back into the abyss below. He pounded his fists against the wood, turning the handle uselessly as he yelled Eames’ name. He shouted again and again as he hit the unmoving barrier, but suddenly cut himself off, a presence interrupting his pleas. He couldn’t see it, didn’t even move his head to look, but he knew, he _knew,_ something — someone — was standing at the bottom of the stairs.

It wasn’t until he heard the first heavy footfall on the bottom step, the whispers coming back again, that he felt his heart seize in his chest, any thought besides terror fleeing from his mind. Arthur didn’t care anymore if he was imagining things, if he would look back on this moment and think he was overreacting — right now, he had to get out before whatever it was that was ascending the steps reached him.

_the aging of the bones is not given to all and we will not be the same as we were when they bend and crack and break into each other—_

He pounded on the door, palms numb from pain, knowing that he was likely waking up the entire neighborhood at this point, but as long as someone got to him—

“Arthur? Arthur, what’s wrong? Open the door!”

Eames. He was here, he was here, he could _help._

“Eames, get the door open! Now!”

“It’s locked!" Arthur could hear him pulling on the handle, grunting when the door refused to give. "What's happened, what’s going on?”

_said the tree to the house ‘you once were I and one day you will fall and rot and crumble into the soil where I will consume you until you are again whole—’_

Arthur could hear the steps getting closer, the whispers almost shouting in his ear, moving slowly but steadily towards him, and his voice cracked in fear as he slammed his palm on the door.

“Just get the door open, get me out, _please—”_

_AND WE WILL BE HERE FOR THE TIME THAT CIRCLES AND WE WILL MAKE YOU ANEW IN THE FLESH OF THE WORLD TO THE SOIL TO THE WORMS WHERE YOUR BODY HAD GIVEN LIFE—_

Suddenly the door swung out from under his hand, and he fell through, landing on the kitchen floor painfully. Eames had stepped back when the door finally gave, and Arthur turned around faster than he thought was possible, moving to a crouched position and throwing his back against the door. It slammed shut so hard the hinges creaked in protest, and Arthur heard a muffled groan from behind it, the presence retreating in defeat.

For a moment there was silence, save for Arthur’s labored breathing. He closed his eyes, pressing the heels of his hands against them as he drew his knees to his chest. His heart was hammering in his ribs, and his entire body was shaking so violently that it was a miracle he hadn’t fallen over.

“Arthur? Arthur, what is it, what happened? Are you alright?” Eames asked, not really expecting an answer; he'd seen Arthur during panic attacks before, and knew that talking to him would ground his partner to the present. He carefully reached for the man, and Arthur’s hands whipped out and grabbed his arms, fingers digging into the muscle beneath. “It’s okay, you’re alright, I’m here.” 

Arthur didn't speak, but weakly pulled on Eames' arms, the signal he'd been waiting for. Eames moved to his partner's side, still kneeling on the cold floor. His own heart was still pounding, slowly beginning to calm as the adrenaline faded. The sound of a door slamming shut had woken him, and he had barely had time to register that Arthur wasn't next to him before the latter's screams had started. Eames remembered practically flying out of their room, nearly tripping down the stairs to reach him. He could hear his partner's voice filled with fear, and it frightened him; he could count on one hand the number of times he had heard Arthur sound afraid, and this one was worse than all the others combined.

“I...I n-need to talk...to you about something,” Arthur said, his voice catching on a breath as he told himself to calm down; he was on the other side of the door, Eames was here. He snapped his mouth shut, bowing his head until it rested against his partner’s chest. Eames freed an arm from Arthur's grip, resting a hand on his back before gently rubbing it up and down Arthur’s spine in comfort. Despite how much Eames felt afraid for this side of Arthur he had rarely seen before, he wasn’t going anywhere.

“I’m here. You’re okay,” Eames murmured, and there was a short nod from Arthur before the latter took a deep breath, hands still on Eames’ arm.

“This house...I’ve been feeling—” _(deep breath)_ “I thought it was just me unused to it. Old and creaking. But something isn’t right.” Eames didn’t interrupt him, the steady rhythm of the latter’s hand on his back not faltering once. It gave Arthur the courage to keep talking. “I feel like I’m...I’m being watched. How cold I am all the time. A voice saying my name. Something in the shadows next to the door at night. And the stairs...I didn’t even have a chance to walk, I was _pushed_ —” _(deep breath)_ “I didn’t come down here on my own, I know I didn’t. Something was making me. I swear I’m telling the truth Eames, you know I wouldn’t—”

“I know,” Eames said, his hand moving up to brush back Arthur’s hair. “I believe you, Arthur.”

It was only a few words, but they were enough to lighten the feeling on Arthur’s chest, and he burrowed closer to Eames, relaxing his grip. “Didn’t think you’d ever hear me say the words ‘I think our house is haunted’ huh?”

Eames made a humming sound, almost like an agreement, and gently pulled Arthur’s wrist until Arthur let his legs relax onto the floor, still trembling slightly. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Arthur nodded, his heart finally returning to its usual steady beat.

He’d be okay...he hoped.

*****

Everything starts crashing down after that.

Arthur felt the presence of whatever it was that resided in the basement growing, heavier and heavier until it felt like his lungs were dragging in breaths, back hunched over, head in hands. It didn’t attack him, didn’t lurk in the shadow at night, whisper in his dreams, or push him down the stairs again. 

Just watched.

It was creeping under his skin, and he asked Ariadne if she wanted to visit again. She agreed, and came over for another weekend, but didn’t miss the grateful look Arthur gave her when he opened the door in greeting. She would've thought something was wrong between her brother and his partner, but they didn't act any different from the years she’d known them together, though the “arguments” that tended to happen were still common. Arthur once threatened to divorce Eames if he microwaved a certain leftover, and it left Ariadne chuckling, Eames placating his doubting husband in the background.

After she left, the presence doubled down, and Arthur grabbed his computer, traveling a few blocks to the library near their neighborhood. The break from being in the house lightened him, like the vine constricting him had loosened. However, it returned before Eames came home, winding back around his chest eagerly, likely to leave bruises and crack bones.

At one point Arthur caught his neighbors leaving the house while he was outside, and apologized if they were making too much noise since the pipes were acting up (a terrible lie, but what else could he say, really?). The old woman just smiled, saying that they hadn't heard a thing from next door, so they must not be as bad as he thought. For some reason that answer sent goosebumps running down Arthur's arms, and he replied "Oh, that's good" before heading towards the library, unease making its home in his chest for the rest of the day.

There wasn’t anything Eames could do, and that made it the most frustrating problem of all. This was something he couldn't physically stop, it wasn’t targeting him, and seemed to ignore any attempts he made to try to get it to latch onto him instead of his partner. Arthur still woke up from nightmares, but he wouldn’t discuss them; instead he’d either burrow back into Eames’ arms or go to the sink, splash water on his face, a calming motion he’d done since he could remember.

He had night terrors too, and those, in his opinion, were much worse. He knew he was hallucinating the noises and sights, but didn't know if the silhouette of a figure opening their doors or a multitudes of whispers overlapping and echoing in his ears was part of. He couldn’t move, and shut his eyes, willing himself to stay calm. It wasn’t real, he told himself, but his body insisted that he was wrong. Arthur wasn’t sure if the figure never getting closer was a good thing or not in these states. 

He cursed when he could finally move, feeling tired, angry, ready to sleep for a year to catch up on the hours spent awake. He could feel his agitation wicking away the fuse of his temper, and he and Eames fought the next day. Eames talked about wanting to bring in someone who dealt with things like this, but Arthur felt embarrassment course through him; letting someone know that he was being terrorized by this, a stranger, was completely different than telling Eames, or even telling his family. He shut it down, and he knew he was being illogical, that this wouldn’t stop until they did something, but he couldn’t help the walls that shot up. Eames knew he was a private person, and that was why he rejected the idea, but looking at Arthur’s dark circles, the weariness that hung off him...feelings be damned. Even if Arthur hated him for going over his refusal, he couldn’t look at his partner and let him keep suffering for the sake of whatever was plaguing the house.

He got in touch with a man named Fischer, who had a team that specialized in the unexplained and supernatural. They called themselves the "Northeast Spectre Investigations", or "NESI (like the loch ness monster)" as the site said, and had a fair amount of positive reviews. Eames dialed them up when Arthur had been out of the house for an errand, explaining to Fischer himself a brief idea of what was happening. Of course, Arthur had refused to label it as a ghost, but it was the closest thing Eames could call it so they would know what they were dealing with. Fischer asked to stop by the house on the weekend, and Eames agreed, steeling himself for the inevitable as the week quickly slipped away. 

It was around noon on Saturday when they arrived, and Arthur opened the door to see a brown haired man standing there, brilliant blue eyes emitting warmth as he introduced himself. At the mention of Eames and unusual problems with the house, as well as seeing the black van with the abbreviated name stamped on it in white on the curb, Arthur turned to his husband, who was sitting at the kitchen table. If looks could kill, Eames would definitely be dead right then, and probably several times over. 

Fischer was followed in by two men, both dressed in short-sleeve, white collar shirts tucked into black pants, ties, and shoes. Both were carrying black bags, heavy from looks alone, and they set them down gently into the foyer. The taller of the two had brown hair and a beard, and introduced himself as Thomas.

“And this is Simon. We’ve been doing this kind of thing for ages, so we know what to look for to help you guys out quickly,” Thomas said, and the bespeckled man next to him straightened up, brushing off the front of his shirt, dirty blond hair slightly messy thanks to the wind.

“Thomas and Simon have been working for me for a couple of years now, though sometimes they like to do an investigation on their own,” Fischer added, and Arthur’s mouth thinned, arms crossed as he watched the men pull out a couple pieces of equipment from the bags they’d carried in, the name sewn on the sides just off enough to be registered as done by hand. Fischer excused himself, saying he had forgotten something in the car, and Eames’ body tensed as Arthur walked over to him, looming in close.

“I distinctly remember saying ‘no’ to something like this,” the latter seethed, but Eames stood his ground, looking back at his husband with an equally intense gaze.

“Whatever is happening is slowly killing you, _has_ tried to kill you. I’m sorry but I’m not going to let it succeed as long as I can do something about it, even if you hate me for it. At least you'll be around to do so,” Eames whispered firmly, and Arthur looked at him for a moment longer before dropping his head into his face, rubbing at his eyes a little. He knew Eames was right, that he was doing it to keep them safe, but telling strangers everything that had been happening...he tensed, feeling a small shake run through him.

Eames’ face softened, and he reached out, gently holding onto one of Arthur’s wrists. There was no prying, but Arthur let it slowly fall anyways, moving his arm up until their hands entangled.

“I’ll be with you the entire time, love,” he said, voice low enough for only Arthur to hear. “Not going anywhere.”

Arthur swallowed, nodding his head a couple times. Fischer returned, and sat in one of the chairs opposite the couch, Thomas standing with a recorder in one hand, the other pressing on one of the ears of his headphones. Simon sat in the other chair, a small notebook in hand. The two men went to the couch, and Eames rested solidly against his partner, their hands still tangled together.

“So, Arthur, can you tell us what’s been happening?” Fischer asked, his tone calm and encouraging.

Arthur took a slow, deep breath, and told them.

*****

Arthur felt like he could sleep for an entire week, nightmares or not, once he explained everything: the prickling sensations on his neck, the whispers, the locking basement door, the figure he glimpsed in the hallway, how he could never shake feeling cold. Fischer’s face sometimes shifted to concern, but he listened patiently, only asking questions when Arthur paused in between stories. Simon scribbled notes, but said nothing, glancing over at Thomas every now and then.

“I don’t want to draw any conclusions too quickly but...from everything you’ve said, I don’t think this is something you’re imagining. A lot of the feelings you mentioned, that’s instinct acting for you. And if it’s alright with you, we’d like to stay for the night, see if we can capture it, help you rid your house of whatever is here,” Fischer said, sincerity in his voice. Arthur couldn’t speak, so he just squeezed Eames’ hand — which had never left his — and his partner answered affirmatively.

The two men watched the three others set up small cameras around the house, recorders in the most active spots that Arthur had mentioned. Late afternoon was approaching by the time everything was up, tested, and confirmed to be working as it should. The team went out to grab some dinner, leaving Arthur and Eames alone in the house. Despite seeing all the equipment positioned in their space, Arthur felt some degree of comfort from it; should anything happen, now it would be caught, and dealt with.

The three returned after about an hour, and instructed them to stay as normal to routine as possible for the night. Arthur didn't expect to get any rest, and neither did his partner, but they changed into more comfortable clothes as night began to descend upon the neighborhood.

They all gathered in the living room like before, and Fischer’s face looked more serious as he turned to Thomas and Simon.

“All three of us are prepared to deal with any kind of events, even physical ones. But this is by far the most interactive investigation we’ve ever taken, and so most likely will be the most dangerous one. Out of caution, no one goes anywhere alone,” he said, looking at his two teammates with an expression that brokered no doubt. “Isolation is just what this thing wants.”

“Buddy system it is,” Simon replied, holding a sketchbook and pencil as he looked around the room, double checking the camera placements. Thomas just nodded, and adjusted the camera he was carrying on his shoulder.

Fischer turned to Arthur and Eames. “Considering that this entity is targeting you, and all that you’ve been through, I do have to ask if you wish to be outside of here while we’re investigating.”

Arthur didn’t hesitate. “No. I need to be here. No running.”

He felt Eames squeeze his hand, and the resolve within him settled into place.

Fischer nodded. “I figured you would, but it does never hurt to ask. I’ll also request you two stay together as well, even if one of us is with you. If this is the last night this entity will be here, it's going to put up one hell of a fight. Let's get it done, with everyone in one piece.”

Arthur nodded, warring between apprehension and courage. “I’m ready.”

*****

Simon and Thomas went upstairs for a while once the moon had emerged, and Arthur could hear them above as they walked into each space.

“Is there anyone who wishes to talk to us? My name is Simon, this is my partner Thomas. We’re here to help, you just need to tell us how,” the man called out, letting silence wrap around them so something could speak, either into the recorder in Simon’s hand or out loud. After a few more moments, he spoke again, “We just want to help. Is there anything holding you here? Something that won’t let you rest?”

Arthur felt Eames’ hand tightly holding him, and his senses were on full alert as the two men above stopped moving. The air was heavy, weighing down on everyone almost like humidity. A similar weight sat in Arthur’s ribs, a slow creeping of unease making its way from his stomach to his throat.

“It’s here,” he whispered, his free hand curled into a fist, resting on his leg. He knew it would shake otherwise.

Fischer nodded slightly, sitting back in the chair he occupied. He reached over to the little radio he had brought, turning the volume before switching it on. Static noise filled the room, sounding like someone was switching channels rapidly.

“Who are you?” Fischer asked, curious yet firm.

_Shkshkshkshkshkshkshkshkshkshksks_

“What is your name?”

_Shkshkshkshkshkshkshkshkshkshks_

“Where are you from?”

_ShkshkshksBasementshkshkshkshks_

A chill ran up Arthur’s neck, and judging from the other two men’s reactions — Eames, eyes wider, Fischer, looking at the radio — they’d heard it as well.

“Why the basement?”

_ShkshkshkshksMineshkshkshkshksPlaceshkshkshskhks_

“Your place? Did you live here?”

_Shkshkshkshkshkshkshkshkshkshks_

Fischer hesitated for a moment before asking, “Were you brought here?”

_ShkshkshkshkshkshkshksYesshkshkshks_

Arthur didn’t want to know any more, and Fischer must’ve read it in his tense body because he reached over and flipped the radio off, letting silence dominate once more.

“I don’t like this,” Eames muttered, still anchoring his partner to the present.

“How bad?” Arthur asked, looking over at Fischer.

The man thought for awhile before replying. “Someone could’ve used a Ouija board, opened a portal and brought it through. Could’ve been attached to whoever owned this place at some point and decided to stay. I don’t know for sure, I’m sorry to say.”

Arthur didn’t like the uncertainty, but accepted the answer, knowing it was the best they’d have for now.

Simon and Thomas started down the stairs at that point, walking quickly into the living room. Simon looked slightly freaked out, and sat next to Fischer, talking rapidly, “Fischer, man, you gotta hear this, I’ve never heard something like this and I _do not_ like it —”

Their boss nodded, and Simon started the recorder until it hit the beginning, fast forwarding over the questions he’d asked until he hit a certain time point. Silence pressed in as the slight noise of the two walking sounded over the recorder, stopping, opening a door, more walking.

“Main bedroom,” was all Simon whispered before becoming silent again, and Arthur felt the weight in his chest almost double with those two words alone.

There was something Arthur could barely hear in the background. It was faint at first, but the recorder finally began picking up the noise, one Arthur was all too familiar with.

_...the walls are closing they close in but the scratching can still be heard and it will click in the ears of those who listen when the night is full and fat and we bleed into the shadows that cannot be cast out until we creep up like the slowly strangling vine that will be too late to stop as it writhers under you skin like the emerging fly—_

Suddenly, the basement door slammed open, making everyone jump, Simon’s recorder fumbling out of his hands and crashing to the floor. The whispers stopped, and Arthur could feel his heart throbbing in his chest as Eames pulled him off the couch, moving over to where the other three men were. He stood slightly in front of his husband, clutching Arthur’s hand in his with a grip that could leave bruises. Arthur’s free hand bunched on Eames’ sleeve, if only to reassure the latter that he wasn’t going anywhere.

Thomas swallowed as the door creaked back from hitting the wall, letting the black part of the stairwell that they could see loom across the space between them. 

It was silent. For so long it was silent. But none of them moved, not daring to. The high alert prickling sensation ghosted across Arthur’s neck, and a footstep at the bottom of the stairwell plunged his stomach to the floor.

The group stayed close together as the footsteps grew louder...closer. It echoed in the stillness of the air, and Arthur felt like he was about to enter a fight he didn’t know if he would win; nerves were rattling his stomach, but determination was driving the adrenaline in his blood.

The steps were crisp and clear now, and stopped the moment they landed on the top step. Everyone held their breath, pulses thrumming in their ears. Slowly, something seemed to move from the black of the stairwell, the shadows of it stretching across the door like an ink stain. It eventually parted from the shadows, slowly forming into a humanoid shape, but there was where the similarities ended.

It was tall, and where the head should’ve been there was nothing. No, Arthur noted, not nothing; the head was just lowered, the neck curved like a vulture’s, piercing gold orbs staring at them from around the chest. It was too skinny to truly look human, and an arm parted from the body slowly, unnaturally long fingers trailing behind, the tips almost pointed like a claw.

Arthur almost clamped his hands over his ears when the whispers suddenly began shouting, drowning out any other noises. 

_our hands our fingers have wrapped around the trees and snuffed the light of our own existence one by one little by little for the greed of the thick black below and so too will we end as we had begun with a gasp choked by those we held close until the last must stand in a cracked decaying ruin created by their own forever to wander and wonder how they can be when nothing else will ever again and it is all their fault and it is all our fault and it is all your fault —_

Strong hands were clutching at his shoulders, and his face was pressed into a familiar scent of warmth and coffee and the barely there of a forest after a terrible rain. Garbled words, like he was submerged underwater, mixed around him, and he felt a shirt under his hands, taking hold so he could come back to himself. 

"—just tell me, or do it, it doesn't matter," Eames' voice suddenly was clear, tense and barely growling. He was upset but trying to hide it, and didn't let go of Arthur for a moment.

"Okay we'll — fuck, it's gone!" That was Simon, Arthur knew, and he sounded both terrified but determined. It was good that one of them was.

"What the hell was that? Rob, have you ever seen something like that?" Thomas. Fischer must've given a non verbal reply, as the former made an unsure sound in response.

Arthur finally opened his eyes, quickly turning his head to see that the basement door was still open, but the figure that had been there had disappeared. 

There was only the sound of heavy breathing before an inhuman growl shook at the walls, and the couch Arthur and Eames had been on previously shot towards the group across the floor. They barely escaped its path as it crashed into the bookcase, sending various books and decorations flying from the shelves. 

"What the fuck!" Simon yelled, and Arthur turned, Eames' hand now holding his arm. The chair in his "office" knocked to the side, trembling violently before getting picked up and _thrown_ at them.

Arthur felt it barely pass over his head as he dove to the floor, Eames half on top of him, shielding his head. 

"Fischer, what do we do?" the latter shouted, the roar of the walls almost drowning him out.

Before the man could reply, Arthur felt a red hot grip clamp onto his ankle, and he had barely shouted in surprise before the grip _pulled._ Arthur slipped from under Eames, hands reaching to grab ahold of anything he could to stop his momentum, the sight of absolutely nothing holding and dragging him towards the basement door sending a spike of pure terror right through him.

"Arthur!" It was Eames that had yelled, and familiar hands grabbed his wrist and arm. His partner moved quickly, hooking his arms under Arthur's own, planting his feet against one of the L-shaped support columns at the edge of the living room. Arthur jerked to a stop, and felt the heat on his ankle increase, agonizingly searing into his skin. 

"Fuck!" he croaked, fingers digging into Eames' shirt, determined to not let go. 

"Shit! Fischer, Simon, any of you, close that fucking door!" Eames yelled. He could feel whatever was holding his husband tugging hard, and it was taking all his strength to keep them from getting any closer to that black abyss that stared right into him.

Thomas flew past his side, stumbling a little before he fell forward. A cut opened on his arm, but he didn't seem to notice it; he just shoved up to his feet, and with a yell and hard hit, slammed the door back into its frame. 

Arthur's legs instantly dropped to the ground, and Eames hurriedly picked him up, hearing his partner's pain filled mutters as he practically ran to the front door. He threw it open, and the team must've been right behind him because they went around where he had stopped on the steps, Simon grabbing the handle and pulling it shut so hard the windows right next to it shook in their frames.

The city was a distant noise, and all five of them were breathing hard. Eames sat Arthur on the steps, and gently lifted his left pant leg, feeling anger and horror at the sight of burned skin in the shape of too long fingers, tiny rivulets of blood staining the cloth. 

"What the fuck…that…holy shit…" Simon wasn't speaking to anyone directly, pacing on the sidewalk, hands threaded through his hair.

"I've never had something like that happen before," Fischer said, gazing at the brownstone. Its dark windows seemed to stare back at him menacingly. "And I've been doing this for over a decade."

Eames looked up at Arthur, giving him all his attention. Arthur's face was in his hands, but there was no sound of tears or pain. He let one hand fall away, catching his husband's look of fear and concern. It made the decision he had been thinking solidify.

"I'm done," Arthur said, calmer than he really felt. Eames placed a hand on his knee, and the touch brought warmth into his bones. "We both are."

*****

They sold the brownstone in mid-July. 

Ariadne asked why they wanted to move back to their old place, why they didn't want to pack up their belongings themselves, and Arthur couldn't answer. He didn't know if he would ever really be able to tell their family about the events that had happened over their time in the house, if he was being honest. Maybe in time he would explain it, give the story to them. But for now, he just wanted to go back into the city, back to the familiar of their old life.

They'd been staying at a hotel just down the street until the sale was finished, living out of suitcases they had thrown together the night everything came to a head. It was the last time they had stepped foot in the house, and Eames would not allow Arthur to go in, even though the latter wouldn't have done so anyways. 

Fischer told them he'd keep an eye out on the home, and that he was glad they were getting away from it. Simon and Thomas were going to investigate in the home's past, tell them if they found anything that could give them even a hint of an answer. Eames didn't expect to hear back from the two men any time soon, or even at all. But he still appreciated the concern, especially after everything they had gone through together. 

Walking into the familiarity of their old apartment made a spot in Arthur's chest settle, not realizing how tense he had truly been until that moment. The boxes were in their designated areas already; the movers had packed everything for them, and thankfully nothing had been broken or missing since that fateful night. 

Arthur stood at the entrance for a moment, taking in the space he could walk through with his eyes closed: the empty kitchen and living room, the windows that overlooked the high rise buildings that surrounded the complex, the bedroom that had been theirs for longer than they had been married.

They were home.

They got the bed put together, some clothes put away, the ridiculously huge bookcase back in its former spot ("You keep saying that Arthur but you still let it stay with us" "Just until I get to push it over on an intruder, or you if you annoy me too much"). They decided to turn in early after a quick dinner from the shop across the street; the rest of the boxes could wait until tomorrow.

Although the space in their bedroom was mostly empty, Arthur felt more at home than he ever really had been at the brownstone. He didn't know what would happen to the next person who had the place, whether the thing that had attached to him, had nearly ruined him, would do the same war on them. He had checked past residents during the move, and found nothing; no notes about hauntings, strange noises, whispers. He could only hope the figure would leave them alone. 

Arthur's ankle also had healed by the time they moved, leaving no scar behind. Both of them breathed a sigh of relief, glad to have no reminder of those months. Arthur was already looking more healthy during their time at the hotel as well, with color returning to his skin, the circles under his eyes beginning to fade. Eames had been there when he had had nightmares, but they were nothing in comparison to the ones at the brownstone. His partner never told him what was in the dreams, but assured him that it was for the best that he didn't. The nights between waking up to strangled screams and bruising grips versus uninterrupted sleep were growing, and Eames hoped one day they would no longer linger for his husband.

Tonight, they were lying close together, and Eames reached up, tucking a loose strand of Arthur's hair behind his ear. Their legs were tangled together, and Eames was glad to no longer feel the bandage around his husband's ankle brushing against his skin.

"How are you feeling?" he asked softly, letting his hand linger. Arthur placed a hand over his, leaning into his husband's palm. He didn't shiver from the unrelenting cold anymore, and it was a feeling he had sorely missed. 

"Better. Much better." 

"Let's agree, no more haunted houses. Well, if we ever decide to leave here again that is. Also, and I'm telling you this right now, you'll have one hell of a time convincing me to move anywhere else," Eames said, and Arthur laughed, a real laugh that lightened Eames' heart. The feeling grew until he thought he would overflow with love and fondness, and right then, the future didn't seem so uncertain.

Arthur let his smile stay, threading their fingers together, moving them until both were against his chest, a strong heartbeat reverberating through the touch.

"Deal."

**Author's Note:**

> this work was greatly inspired by the amazing fic by seabass, which I highly recommend everyone read. thank you for getting me back into the writing spirit, it felt great to bring a new fic to life.


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